


The Unadorned Truth

by Mithen



Category: DCU Animated
Genre: Evil Double, M/M, Mirror Universe, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-16
Updated: 2006-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The Qwardians are the mirror-universe version of the JLA--Owlman is the evil Batman, Ultraman the evil Superman, Superwoman the evil Lois Lane (married to Ultraman, and Owlman's lover).</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Unadorned Truth

**Author's Note:**

> The Qwardians are the mirror-universe version of the JLA--Owlman is the evil Batman, Ultraman the evil Superman, Superwoman the evil Lois Lane (married to Ultraman, and Owlman's lover).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is captured by the evil doppleganger of Superman.

For the hundredth time that day, Bruce Wayne paced to the end of his chain, pausing at the point when the collar’s pressure against his Adam’s apple began to be uncomfortable. Six strides. Then back to the wall. The shorter chains binding his hands together jingled slightly. They were all made of some very light but incredibly strong metal, an alloy he was unfamiliar with. But then, there were so many things that he was unfamiliar with in this reverse Qwardian world.

And some that he was now all too familiar with.

He had been captured in a fight with the Crime Syndicate of America, the JLA’s evil doppelgangers from a mirror universe. It had been sheer luck on their part, and they had seemed unsure what to do with their sudden windfall. Eventually he had been brought here, stripped naked, to a simple white cell with minimal toilet facilities in one corner, and his collar and chains on the wall. Ultraman had fastened the collar around his throat and grinned at him. “When the Kryptonians of this world captured me, they taught me many things about power, and pleasure, and submission.” He leaned close so his breath brushed Bruce’s ear. “I intend to teach you all of them.” Bruce merely stood stock-still. Naked, chained, probably trapped in the negative universe with no aid even if he could escape this cell—any resistance would have to be mental, not physical.

Physically, they broke him, as he knew they would given enough time. Once a day, Ultraman came into his cell, unclothed and erect, and assaulted him. That was the only human contact he ever had. The camera lenses on the walls were not subtly hidden; he knew that the JLA’s doppelgangers were almost certainly watching every time his tormentor visited him. He had become a tool in the twisted sexual games played out between Ultraman, Owlman, and Superwoman. He wondered if Ultraman suspected, as he did, that the other two used the viewing as foreplay of their own.

They had used drugs on him to dull his mind and his inhibitions, and crude but effective behavioral psychology, but he suspected that he still could have held out if they had chosen anyone but Ultraman to be his punisher. Of all the Crime Syndicate, he had always hated Ultraman the most. Crude, sadistic, and leering, he was a twisted and dark version of his--of his _universe’s_ \--Clark Kent. Physically, however, he was a perfect match, from the dark wavy hair to the piercing turquoise eyes to the muscles on his body.

He looked exactly like Superman.

He was gorgeous.

Bruce had thought he had a throttlehold on some reactions and desires, had buried them down deeply enough that he would never have to deal with them. But in his drugged haze, he eventually found himself responding--against his own will, to his shame, and incredibly intensely—to the pressure of Ultraman’s body in his. The first time he had climaxed, for a moment he had really believed it was Superman, and thanked Fate that Superman’s doppelganger was also named Clark, because he was fairly sure he had stuttered the name out loud. Ultraman had smirked, gripped Bruce’s chin with fingers that left bruises, and stalked out of the room to leave him alone again.

There was a sort of sleeping couch built into the wall, and Ultraman always took him on that, always face to face. But there was no intimacy or tenderness in the act; the evil version of Superman merely wanted Bruce to see the disdain and lust in his eyes, wanted to see the rising, reluctant desire in Bruce’s, and the self-loathing and abandon at the moment of the detective’s climax. And he always brought a bottle of lubricant—apparently they had no desire to severely damage their prize, although Ultraman was often forceful. Bruce had come to look forward to that as well.

After a while, it was enough to simply see his captor enter the room to have him aroused and aching, like today. Ultraman towered over him, looking so heartbreakingly like Superman that Bruce closed his eyes against his longing for a moment. His tormentor shot a grin at the cameras, then stared down at Bruce in his chains for a long time. His eyes were hooded with lust and he licked his lips hungrily, his arousal becoming increasingly obvious. Bruce threw his head back and let his hatred and disdain show in his face. Ultraman stepped forward and stroked Bruce’s cock once with a strong hand. Bruce hissed a breath between clenched teeth at the unexpected, agonizingly intimate contact. His captor had never voluntarily touched him there before, and Bruce wondered what new torments he might have in mind.

The other man squeezed some lube onto his fingers, then moved close to Bruce and put one, then two fingers into him. He was breathing heavily and his hands were less steady than usual; Bruce wondered if he had been drinking today. He braced himself against the inevitable jolt of sensation, tried not to let the thrill of it show on his face. As always, he could see from Ultraman’s reaction that he had failed again. The brilliant blue eyes sparked with passion and anger. “You like that, do you? You like to see your lover enter the room? Like to have him do _this_ to you?” Strong fingers accentuated the “this” so he grunted with pleasure despite himself, pleasure that turned into white-hot fury, and he was speaking before he could stop himself.

“If you believe it’s _you_ I’m thinking of during this, then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

The invasive fingers paused for a moment. “Then...who?” said Ultraman, sounding as stupid as Bruce had accused him of being.

Bruce glared right at his assailant’s face, at the beautiful blue eyes and endearing curl and strong chin. “Who the hell do you _think,_ you son of a bitch?” he snarled.

And then he saw the reaction cross the other man’s face like a wind across water, saw the eyes and the mouth soften to familiarity for just an instant, and he _knew_ , and he cursed himself for a hundred kinds of fool, and even as he did his body was moving forward and clenching hard and demanding _more, more._ Superman reached out and put his other hand on the chain holding Bruce to the wall, ready to snap it like a cobweb, but what he saw in the other man’s face caused him to pause and slide his hand slowly down the chain to the collar, to touch it so delicately, so gently, and to look into Bruce’s eyes.

Clark took him there in front of the cameras and Bruce didn’t even care who might be watching. “You’re _mine_ ,” the Kryptonian said hoarsely with each thrust, his voice choked with anger and desire and tenderness. “You’re _mine._ ” Bruce knew that soon, even naked and drugged, he would escape this place. “You’re _mine._ ” Because nothing could stop them when they were together. “You’re _mine,_ you’re _mine,_ you’re _mine._ ”

And Bruce Wayne, usually loquacious to a fault in bed, had nothing he could say in response to each thrust but the unadorned truth.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

"Yes."


	2. Anger Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a companion piece to [ The Unadorned Truth](http://jen-in-japan.livejournal.com/15415.html). The Qwardian Crime Syndicate of America is the mirror-image version of the JLA. Ultraman matches up with Superman; Owlman with Batman.

“It would make our job easier if we could see the video,” the Martian Manhunter noted. “Perhaps we could gain some further understanding of the situation.”

Superman gritted his teeth. “You don’t need to see the video. I’ve shared everything important from it with you.”

J’onn looked dubious but decided not to protest further. Superman had been on monitor duty when a video had arrived for the JLA from the Crime Syndicate of America, the alternate-universe supervillain group that had captured Batman three weeks ago. The Kryptonian had refused to let any other member of the JLA see it. J’onn knew the set of Superman’s jaw when he was not going to budge. He would have to be content with the details Superman was willing to share with them.

“Let us review the information we have, then. Owlman sent us a recording as proof that they have Batman. They must be holding him in this--" he pointed to a spot on the hologram before him, "small cell. It is under constant camera surveillance and is carefully shielded from psionics, which would explain why I have been unable to contact Batman telepathically. Ultraman visits him once a day while the other members of the Crime Syndicate watch via remote camera. No one else ever enters the cell.”

Diana frowned at Superman. “I don’t like your plan, Kal. You shouldn’t be going in there alone. And with the room shielded, we’ll be out of contact with you while we try to take down the machine they’ve got bridging our universes. I just don’t think we should split up.”

Superman glared at her. “The others will be distracted. They enjoy watching Ultraman interrogate Batman.” _Sometimes we bring popcorn,_ Owlman had said. _Sometimes we bring popcorn_. “It will be the best time for the rest of you to find and destroy the machine. And I’m the only one who can get close to Batman, because I can pass for Ultraman.”

“You look just like him, but can you pass for him?” Flash asked. “I mean, I’ve seen him in action, and he is creeeeeeepy. Seriously freaky.”

“I’ll do what I have to do.”

John Stewart took his turn to frown at Superman. “I would still feel better if you’d let us see that video. It could have strategic value—“

Kryptonian fists crashed onto the meeting table; the Watchtower shuddered. Green Lantern raised his hands in the air and gave Superman a raised-eyebrow look, part capitulation and part concern. Superman relaxed his fists and spread his fingers out on the table. He sighed.

“I’ve given you any information that would be strategically useful, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one. I swear I would never risk the success of this mission.” And with that the other members of the League had to be content.

Alone in his quarters that night, Superman hit the replay button on the recording he had received from Owlman. He watched the man who looked exactly like him enter the room naked and grin leeringly for the cameras, then turn his attention to the man bound to the wall by a metal collar. Clark felt his heart thud to a stop again when he saw Bruce, his eyes dull, patterns of bruises marking his bare body. The man with Clark’s face put something from a tube on his fingers and without ceremony slipped them into Bruce, who hissed between his teeth, his erection rising between them immediately. Ultraman chuckled. “You’re a good student, Wayne.” Clark’s voice. Clark’s hands. “You want more?” Bruce’s face was closed and distant, but his body was tight with arousal as Ultraman touched him, as he took him. Clark watched as Bruce moved inexorably toward orgasm, his head falling back and his eyes fixed on Ultraman’s face. He watched Bruce’s face soften, a wave of yearning, almost tenderness, passing across it just before his climax. He watched his double turn his back on Bruce and leave the room.

Then he hit replay and watched it again.

And again.

And one more time.

After the fourth time, he stood up, savagely stabbed the “off” button, and stalked to his quarters’ shower. In the shower, he let hot water wash over him and rested his forehead on the smooth tile wearily. He had heard of people who washed themselves compulsively, scrubbing themselves until their skin was raw, trying to achieve some purifying they could never attain, some cleansing beyond that of the body. _The column of Bruce’s throat, his head flung back in ecstasy._ But nothing would ever abrade his invulnerable, untouchable skin, and nothing could ever get him clean enough again.

: : :

The air in front of the Leaguers shimmered and six vials appeared. “Batman’s notes on these nanites were pretty clear; he’d worked with the Atom on them.” The Batcave filled the viewscreen, Robin’s tense face at the computer. “When the generator is destroyed, these will kick in and bring you back to this universe. They’ll work on any living being within about a meter radius, too, so try to avoid bringing back any unwelcome guests with you.”

A soft rustling sound, and Batman dropped down behind Robin. Clark felt his heart leap for a mad moment--Bruce was safe, he was home, and Clark wouldn’t have to--but then the figure removed the cowl. Of course it was Dick, that was perfectly reasonable. Looking at Dick in Bruce’s costume, Clark felt anger grind through him. He breathed deeply and composed himself; he couldn’t afford the luxury of irrational anger, not now, not ever. He made himself smile at Tim and at Dick, a good kid, a good friend and ally, _Get out of his suit this moment, you..._ “Thanks for getting these into working condition.”

Robin nodded curtly; Dick put a hand on his shoulder and looked out steadily at the assembled JLA . “Just... bring him back, ok?”

Hawkgirl’s mace crackled briefly. “Count on it.”

: : :

Flash shoved Ultraman’s limp body into a closet with rather more force than was necessary. “We’ve put enough drugs in his system to leave him out for a couple of hours. Better than he deserves.” He turned to look at Superman, standing in his own Ultraman costume. “And thanks for all the help back there, big guy! You didn’t even lift a finger, what the hell is wrong with you?” Wally rubbed a bruise rising on his chin and grimaced.

“I’m sorry.” Clark hadn’t dared to strike Ultraman. Once he had started, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to...he wrenched himself away from thinking about it, gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to the rest of the League. From the way Diana frowned and Wally shuddered, he suspected it hadn’t been.

The Martian Manhunter, unruffled as always, turned to the Kryptonian. “Superman, even if we find the generator quickly, we’ll hold off on destroying it for ten minutes. That should give you enough time to get close to Batman. If we run into problems, you’ll just have to stall and wait. Try not to tip off your identity for as long as possible. The longer they are unaware of our presence the better our chances are.” J’onn put his hands to his temples and concentrated. “Our foes appear to be split up. Owlman and Superwoman are in one room and Power Ring and Johnny Quick in another. I’m not sure why they would watch separately, but they appear to be doing so.”

This was good news. It meant Owlman would be distracted by Superwoman; Clark had no doubt that the two of them particularly enjoyed their own private peepshow. He nodded to his teammates. “I have to get going then, or they’ll wonder at the delay.” Five worried faces looked back at him. Looking at them, Clark was able to muster a real smile. “I’ll be counting on you guys.” Then he turned and headed to the door.

At the door to Batman’s cell, he found a niche for his costume and a small bottle. He pulled off his clothes and stood there for a moment, feeling terribly vulnerable.

Then he threw back his shoulders, raised his head and fixed a superior smirk on his face. Owlman was sharp and he had to be especially convincing in the first few seconds. He flung open the door and walked in as if he owned the place.

The first thing he did was toss a smile to the cameras. It was easy to look contemptuous and hateful when grinning at his unseen enemies. Then he turned and saw Bruce.

Above the silvery collar, blue eyes met his hungrily. He heard Bruce’s heartbeat accelerate painfully and the steely eyes drifted shut for a moment as a flicker of longing went across the detective’s face. His friend was already erect just from seeing Ultraman walk in the door. Clark felt the familiar anger wash over him: anger at the sadistic monsters who had trapped Bruce here, anger at himself, and underneath it all, another anger he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge. He moved forward and stared a long time at Bruce, taking in every line of his body. The dark hair falling into his eyes, the set of his jaw, the curling hair on his chest and lower, the strong legs, the vulnerable bare feet. Clark had known that he would have to be physically aroused during this encounter, but he wished it hadn’t been so very easy. Damn his body.

Damn his heart.

He listened to Bruce’s ragged breathing as he waited for Clark—for _Ultraman_ to touch him. Anger shot through him again and without thinking he reached down and stroked Bruce’s cock once, almost roughly. _That was stupid, Ultraman never did that, it’ll tip them off--_ and then Bruce made a sound deep in his throat at the contact, and Clark was lost. He didn’t care about the cameras, he didn’t care about the mission, he just knew that he was on fire and he had to make Bruce make that sound again, it had to be _him_ , _Clark_ making him sound like that.

He made his fingers slick and they were shaking, he tried to stop them shaking and they wouldn’t stop. He slipped them—God, yes, that felt good, and how he wanted it to be _him_ that Bruce was looking like that for, not just someone who looked exactly like him. At the thought he felt fury and lust go through him like a knife of white light, and he heard himself snarling, “You like that, do you? You like to see your lover enter the room? Like to have him do _this_ to you?” Bruce made that noise again, and Clark couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t bear the fact that it wasn’t him Bruce was seeing, and then the other man was speaking, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“If you believe it’s _you_ I’m thinking of during this, then you’re more stupid than I thought.” The pleasure was gone from his face, leaving only contempt and hatred, and Clark felt a vast wash of relief. Of course Bruce wasn’t broken, of course he wasn’t, how could Clark have been so stupid...and then the implications of what Bruce had said started to sink in. _He’s imagining I’m someone else, he’s imagining Ultraman is someone he actually wants to have do this to him..._

He heard his own voice, sounding dim and stunned, “Then...who?”

Bruce threw back his head, all glorious, bright defiance, and snarled at him, “Who the hell do you _think,_ you son of a bitch?” and all of Clark’s anger was ashes, leaving only a shaking tenderness and a desire to wrap Bruce up in his arms and beg for his forgiveness. He saw the awareness on his face register on the other’s, like a mirror, saw the situation shift and change and become something very different around them both.

Bruce looked at him steadily and then--incredibly, unbelievably—the slightest quirk of a smile tugged faintly at the corners of the Dark Knight’s mouth. Trapped in enemy territory, drugged and naked, with Superman’s fingers exploring him intimately—only Batman could find the humor in that. His beautiful, brave, unbroken Bruce.

Superman reached out to break the chain binding Bruce to the wall. Let the guards come, they could take them, just get Bruce free. But the look on the other man’s face had shifted again, to one of naked pleading. _Show me,_ it said. _Show me that I’m not theirs, that I’m not **his**._

Clark could do that.

“You’re _mine_ ” he said as he entered Bruce, as gently as he could while still playing the alpha-male. He meant it as a taunt to the watching villains, a mocking sneer that they would only understand later, but then Bruce answered him.

“Yes.” He said it so simply, so directly, and his _eyes_...

And after that Clark couldn’t stop saying it, over and over, for the sheer wonder of hearing Bruce answer him every time, and it didn’t matter where they were or who was watching.

At that final moment, Clark felt also the shimmering at the edges of his vision that meant the nanites were taking effect. Just a few moments more. He smiled, his own smile, and leaned forward and kissed Bruce as he had longed to do from the moment he walked in the room. They were on their way home.


End file.
